


Number Four

by kingofokay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s08e17 Goodbye Stranger, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-07 20:55:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/752978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingofokay/pseuds/kingofokay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel killed Dean, over and again, one thousand times and counting. This is number four.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Number Four

Six days.

He is on number four.

There are not sanguine stains set deep in the lines of his hands. Blood isn’t sprayed across the lapels of khaki overcoat, seeping into white cotton collar. Red fingerprints aren’t traced delicate along the curve of his jaw. Remnants of violence are not crusted beneath his fingernails. He is cleaned after every exercise, in the space of a breath and a thought. He can feel the nonexistent blood dripping from his fingertips.

 _Again_ , Castiel tells himself. The thought resonates through his head, timbre not his own, feminine and firm as a granite slab. It catches in his chest, muscles conforming to memory that does not belong to him as he stalks through a shadow. He has been tracking the hunter for the past four hours, and there is a growing impatience welling foreign in the back of his mind. _Stop wasting time_ , he tells himself, somebody tells him, conflicting duality, _and do what you must_.

He nods in response to nothing, obedient and terrified. Dean has paused, crouched against a wall, tired. Perhaps he has been fleeing for days. Perhaps for weeks. Castiel does not know, but he does know the hard determination painted strong along the familiar brow, the firm clench of a stubbled jaw, the tenseness set into shoulders beneath the green jacket. High alert. Danger.

Castiel steps out from his shadowed vantage point, into the spaces where moonlight casts gentle light through tall warehouse windows. Dean tracks him instantly, grip tight around the ivory handle of his .45, and Castiel watches the barrel waver slightly. He watches the bob of Adam’s apple as Dean swallows thickly, watches the course of emotion shift behind shadowed green eyes.

And for a moment silence takes reign of the warehouse hallway, labored breath from the crouched hunter. Castiel takes a step forward and Dean tenses, gun still aligned with aim set directly between blue eyes. Scuffed dress shoes ring hollow on the concrete floor with another step and Dean says, “Cas,” but it comes out as a broken thing, fear and pain cracking the edges of the syllable.

And Castiel knows that he can’t, and as the thought crosses his mind he feels a shift and the sudden, heavy weight of silver sword falling into his hand. _Castiel_ , he says to himself, with a soothing gentleness. _You needn’t be afraid_. The cool wash of comfort through his chest jars against the thronging terror, like a single washcloth pressed to a full-body burn. He takes another step, closing space between them.

The shot rings out loud in the silent, harsh space. Castiel can feel it, feels the bullet part the layers of cloth and flesh, feels it shatter the protective layer of rib, feels it pierce through ventricle, cold metal wrapped deep within his vessel. Feels it expel from the other side, cracking through scapula as it exits. It does not hurt. He does not bleed. Surprise does not register on Dean’s face. “Cas,” he repeats, tenseness to the tone belying pleading. “ _Please_.”

The world goes dark as Castiel presses eyelids shut, distance between them closed and gone in an instant, and he feels his muscles tense and tighten and hears the sharp exhale as Dean is slammed to the ground. Fear tears through, and Castiel opens his eyes to find himself hovering dark over Dean’s prone form, hilt of the blade pressing against Dean’s neck, oxygen supply efficiently cut off. Dean is clutching at Castiel’s hand uselessly, and his eyes speak the volumes that his airless lips cannot, and so many of the things flickering across them Castiel cannot recognize. But he can tell pain, and he can tell betrayal. And he thinks he may even be able to tell love.

The vice-grip over Dean’s throat is unshakeable, and Castiel can feel the dull rush of approval splash across his mind, a wave breaking against the shore of anguish tearing through his stomach. He cannot remove the hilt, no option but to lay witness to the gradual decrease of oxygen through the blood flow, watch as Dean’s brain is slowly starved of the air it requires. The hands raking at Castiel’s grip weaken slowly, now simply holding to him, clinging. Dean has not taken his gaze off Castiel’s eyes.

A shaky breath pulls itself from Castiel’s throat, and his other hand reaches out to trace light fingertips across Dean’s cheekbone, lets the back of his knuckles brush against the firm line of stubbled jaw. His thumb strokes across Dean’s brow, as the green eyes beneath it slowly dull and fade, furrow of it loosening as muscles go lax. The gaze locked between them is a physical entity, full of words never spoken, sentiments that will now never see the light. It is with a shaking tremor that Dean’s eyes finally break their hold, rolling back as a single convulse wracks his body. A moment longer, and it may have been one minute or it may have been twenty, Castiel does not know.

The body beneath him is still, and voices resonate within him chiding _No, Castiel. You must finish it_ , and the soft sound of anguish spilling from his lips is involuntary. Grip shifts and hilt is pulled away from the bruised flesh on the body’s neck, angling instead so the point of the sword is aimed over the hunter’s heart. Castiel momentarily finds it strange that his aim is not steady, but he realizes that he is shivering, small convulses working through his frame. The tip of the sword rests steady on the breast pocket of the green jacket, and Castiel leans over, pressing his forehead to Dean’s, cool and clammy. There is a burning at the corner of his eyes, and something coiled tight within the cavity of his chest, and as he leans his weight down to pierce sword through flesh he also tilts his chin to catch unresponsive lips with his own. The warmth of blood on his hand paints a sharp contrast to the cool, yielding emptiness against his mouth.

Moonlight is replaced by harsh florescent and where dingy warehouse floor was, there is now pristine white paint, and he has only a moment to register the soft, stilled beauty of the hunter’s body before he finds himself at the end of a long and shadowed hall.

 _Very good, Castiel_ , he tells himself.

 _Again_.


End file.
